He likes to be on the edge. Not on the edge of his seat, nor the edge or insanity, or the edge of disaster. He likes sitting in a chair that’s on the edge of crowds, restaurants, coffee houses, and other venues. Likewise, he prefers to stand on an edge’s crowd. It can be the front edge, although he’s more comfortable with no one behind him but wall.
That’s the thing. It’s about comfort. There’s no logic or emotion associated with his choice. He’s just more comfortable on the edge, the fringe, even. Just how he is and has always been.
He always found himself waiting or planning for the next thing, as if he was trapped in some personal version of “The Jolly Corner”. The next season, the next birthday, the next death.
The next marriage, the next divorce, the next trip, the next vacation..
The next election, the political scandal, the next mass murder.
Next step in finishing a novel, the next novel to write, the next meal, the next task, job, bill, the next expense.
He kept reminding himself, stop. Stay in the moment and enjoy. But the next always kept coming.
One of the finest aspects of having a partner is the impact it has on learning and memory. In my case, this spot is filled with my wife, a woman. She’s smart, reads many books, and researches matters. Most of which she researches involves women rights, social justice, and health. She shares all that she learns with me, often piquing my interest to go read more on the subject. Not infrequently, some of what she teaches me ends up in some character in a story. For instance, she taught me two things today.
Men have more collagen and thicker skin than women, in general.
Women donate more kidneys but receive fewer kidney donations. When you think about it, it kinda makes sense. If men are having kidney problems, they can’t donate them. So the next step would be to look for information to vet that.
We also act as memory augmentation for one another, covering the other’s weakness. She’s great with social memes, voices, faces, poetry, cooking and baking. I’m passable with math, science, history, pop culture, and technology. It works.
I think it’d work for most, regardless of gender or pronoun, sexual orientation, and maybe even political persuasion. Everyone should at least should not have the right to try taken away from them. Who knows what we all could learn?
Sunshine beamed in on gray rays at 6:45 Ashlandia morning time. As the hours scurry past, snow fields lose their battle against heat. Their edges draw in with softer roundness. Reinforcement flurries are flying in later today. Will it be enough? Will it arrive in time? It’s dire for the snow. Caught in the situation, icicles cling to gutters and drainpipes. Crystallized snow falls off branches and leaves with tinkling hisses.
It’s 31 F, on its way to 44 F, according to the weather mongers.
It’s Thursday, March 2, 2023, a hazy wintry shade. Spring has temporarily slid its intentions back into the Ashlandia shadows. But fresh stocks of doughnuts are in stores and bakeries. Sunset arrives in the evening, 6:03.
Les chats aren’t pleased with the weather situation, particularly Papi. His energy boils up. Sunshine reinvigorates him. Tthere he goes, dashing through the snow…well, not dashing, but employing small steps, bean-toeing on his tiny paws — such small murder mittens, he has — back to the house’s inside warmth for distraction. We have things to do, we explain to him, around petting and playing with him. More, he begs with sweet eyes and voice. What are we to do against such a power but obey?
I cleaned our carpetting the other day. As I drifted through that mechanical process, my freed mind contemplated me, my life, my writing. Cleaning house is always a meditative function for me. As thoughts joined and fragmented, I drifted through the usual shallows of who I am, where I’m at, and where I’m hiding. Out of this, The Neurons pulled a song up, dusted it off, and put into into the mental music stream where it still plays this morning. “Holly Holy” by Neil Diamond” when I was a young teenager. Looking it up, records show it was 1969. It wasn’t a popular song among my friends. Too slow and most said, “I don’t understand it.” Nor did I. It’s buildup hooked me, and I sat, listening to the words, trying to get them right, baffled by what I heard. But I heard and understood some of the first lines, “Where I am, what I am, what I believe in,” had me. This is an exploration and a declaration. I identified with it.
Coffee’s aromatic steam rises from my cup, enticing my lips. Stay pos, and own this Thursday like it’s a gift you didn’t expect. Here’s the tune. Cheers
He’s been watching ‘His Dark Materials’ and enjoying it. The novels by Phillip Pullman were fun, and this series seems faithful. The Gallivespians fascinate him. Such tiny people, no taller than a hand, with tiny leather clothing and boots. Their hair must be so tiny, as are the seams on their soles. They are so adorable. Deadly, but adorable.
He thinks about the things he uses, enjoys, and curses every day. Computers and cars, sandwiches and plastic, phones and music. So different from 200 years ago. He tries to place himself there, struggling to see himself as a person in those times, without these things, and pretty miserably fails. Would he have been a teacher or shopkeeper, a farmer or soldier? Depression rolls over and sighs.
Michael Seidel, writer 